Regret - A There and Back Again one-shot
by ElyssaCousland
Summary: Companion piece to There and Back Again. Alistair and Sierra are fighting - again. It must be his fault - isn't it always? - but he honestly has no idea what he's done wrong.


So there was an outpouring of anger against Alistair, after I published the most recent chapter of my story There and Back Again. In my head, that wasn't how it was meant to go, but clearly I didn't get my ideas across the way I intended. Sticking with one viewpoint - Sierra's - makes it harder to show what's happening in someone else's head, as well as in the background when she's not around. So I was inspired to write this one-shot from Alistair's point of view from the last few chapters. Here's hoping it makes his actions seem more reasonable. I honestly aimed for most people to be irritated with Sierra, and cheering Alistair for standing up for himself, even a little.

* * *

He sat on the edge of his bed in nothing but loose cotton trousers, his head in his shaking hands, wondering where in the Void he'd gone wrong. His chest ached, and he felt vaguely nauseated. He couldn't decide whether to scream, or cry – or perhaps grab the infuriating woman in front of him and shake her until she talked to him.

The door swung closed behind her – Sierra, his wife, who was practically sprinting down the hallway to get away from him. The words he'd been saying – pleading with her to stay, to talk, not to misunderstand or run away again – died on his lips. He'd have bet his last copper that she hadn't even noticed he was talking, never mind heard what he'd said. She'd interrupted him mid-sentence to make an unrelated comment about Faren, and didn't even seem to have realised.

He wasn't sure why he was surprised. Every time they disagreed on anything, her first instinct was to run. He wondered why he'd thought this would be any different.

Not that he was even disagreeing with her; that was probably the most frustrating part. The throbbing from his groin was enough evidence that he'd wanted her just as much as she had wanted him. He felt like a first-class jerk for stopping her. Her teasing had been physically painful, and it seemed cruel to both of them to let it continue. He'd never dreamed she would jump out of the bed like he had cooties and bolt from the room. It wasn't his fault that they weren't allowed….

The mage had been very clear on that. _"She's just had a trauma. She's in shock, and she needs time to recover, do you hear me?" Anders had waved his finger in Alistair's face judgementally. "And you know her – she'd force herself if she thought you wanted her to. She'd harm herself trying to keep you happy. Women here are raised to think they must put up with pain for the benefit of their lovers. It sounds like that's even worse on Earth. So don't even think about it, you hear me? Don't be that guy."_

And the healer was right; he'd seen Sierra walking practically bow-legged after sex, sitting gingerly and wincing when she thought he wasn't looking. He'd seen her ignore bruises and scrapes, sneaking healing potions when she could get away with it. He got so caught up when they were together – the feel of her, the sounds, the taste…the intoxicating emotions, love and comfort and lust – that he'd hurt her by accident. And not just one time, either. She dismissed it, claimed she actually enjoyed it…but he'd seen her stiff gait and the finger-shaped bruises he'd left on her body. It was bad enough on a normal day; it would be so many times worse if he hurt her today, when her body was still recovering from a miscarriage that he'd caused.

The healer had been right – he would have to be careful. He couldn't risk her feeling obligated in some way, forcing herself to perform before she was ready for his benefit; he couldn't risk hurting her. They would wait, he'd assured himself. He'd get clearance from the healer first.

Anders. He wondered if Anders had any insight that would help him understand…probably not. The mage had a whole host of his own problems to deal with. And Alistair may have forgiven the healer for his feigned interest in Sierra back during the Blight, but that didn't mean Alistair had to like the guy. No, Anders wasn't going to be able to help. And he sure wasn't going to bring it up with Aedan!

He honestly couldn't understand what was going through her head. Surely Anders had given her the same lecture? Did she really expect him to ignore the warning? Just for once, he wished he were a mage – and that mind-reading was a thing. Because he truly had no idea where to even start.

He struggled with Sierra's urge to run. He understood it – she'd raised herself, essentially, and been punished for showing emotion, had everyone she cared about ripped away by a callous, impersonal system that had damaged her more deeply than she even knew. They weren't so dissimilar, but his response to it had been different. She'd been taught to hide her emotions, not to show any vulnerability, never to cry in front of someone…she was deeply ashamed every time she'd broken down around any of their group, always feeling like she should be stronger. Like feeling sadness or fear made her weak, unworthy. But how was walking out in the middle of a conversation ever supposed to solve anything?

He'd asked her to stay and talk. _Begged_ her. He'd told her he loved her, that he was sorry…and he'd watched her dress and run from him as though a terror demon had taken his place.

He scrubbed his hand over his face roughly and stood, trying to shake himself out of his thoughts. He didn't want to think about demons; he'd had enough of them. Between Sierra's nightmares about Justice – he didn't even think she remembered most of them, but the spirit clearly left her extremely anxious, and her sleep had been poor long before the Architect had been captured – and the gut-wrenching dismay that came when he thought about the terror demon in that basement…

He'd shaken it off pretty quickly, but that hadn't stopped it from planting the seeds of fear deep in Alistair's psyche. He was educated enough to understand that the terror demon was playing him, using normal every day worries and amplifying them out of proportion, but that didn't mean it wasn't still effective.

 _"She's still in shock and hasn't connected all the dots. But she'll never forgive you, once she puts it all together," the creature had whispered. "None of them will. You think any of them don't want to push you as far away from her as they can? You left her. You failed to do what was necessary to keep her safe. You drove her back to Earth, let her be captured again and again, tortured, traumatised, forced to attempt murder in cold blood, because you didn't stay with her. You could have prevented it – but you didn't. She nearly died because of you. And in the middle of all that, you thoughtlessly got her pregnant against her will – and then let her overexert herself until she miscarried. It's your fault – her trauma, her nightmares, her loss and pain. The unstable life she will lead, the fear that will be her constant companion…all your fault. She'd be better off without you, and you know it."_

With the words as he remembered them, there came images: Sierra, delirious with sleep deprivation, crying out when she thought he wasn't real; Sierra, tears streaking down her face as blood poured out of her, ending the hope she'd had for their unborn child; Sierra, face crumpled as he'd called her a monster and walked away. And then Aedan, face red and twitching with rage; Zevran painstakingly, threateningly polishing his knives, one at a time; Leliana telling stories about the grizzly revenge of spurned lovers as though they were meant as entertainment.

And he'd deserved it – all of it. He knew in his heart that somehow – he had no idea how – Sierra didn't blame him. She'd understood why he left her, had never blamed him for any of the rest of it. She'd never held him accountable for any of it, not really.

Or maybe she did? Maybe there was more to the running than he'd originally assumed? No. He refused to let the terror demon create doubts. The one thing he knew was that his wife loved him.

His erection now a non-issue – even a few brief seconds thinking about everything the demon had planted in his mind was enough to solve that problem – he quickly dressed, struggling into his armor alone. He could do it, but it was easier with help. Once dressed, he headed down for breakfast, wondering what he could say to her to calm her down and bring her back to him.

She'd always come back before, right?

He needn't have worried; she didn't show for breakfast. He scrambled to make some lame excuse when Aedan asked where she was, not even sure himself. He couldn't help but be irked – why, oh why, did she have to be so avoidant after a fight? Or any sort of conflict, really…hadn't they talked about that? About forgiveness and the benefit of the doubt? Hadn't they been through enough together to get past one, entirely confusing disagreement?

He planned to spend the morning beating the tar out of a sparring dummy. He didn't want to risk sparring with one of the soldiers or Wardens in his current mood; the last thing he needed was to hurt someone else in his frustration. He had just finished warming up and taking a few initial swings when he heard the sound of a throat clearing behind him.

"And what, pray tell, did that dummy ever do to you, my friend?" Zevran sauntered in, his swords sheathed at his sides, a wry smile twisting his face.

Alistair grunted and re-centered on the straw mannequin, lifting the sword stubbornly. "I'm not in the mood right now, Zevran."

"That implies that someday, you will be 'in the mood'. We will have to hide it from the Cousland siblings, but I treasure the anticipation that—"

"Maker's breath!" Alistair dropped his stance and rubbed his forehead irritably, unable to hide the blush that crossed his features. "Don't you ever give up?" He huffed, knowing his body language was giving away far too much to the observant elf.

The Antivan chuckled, but the smile soon dropped from his face as he noted the tension in the warrior's shoulders, and the defensiveness of his responses. "Teasing aside, you look…frustrated, yes?"

Alistair swished the blade of his sword idly through the air, refusing to make eye contact. "I suppose you could say that. I'd rather not talk about it."

Zevran examined the Warden seriously for a moment. "Speaking of Cousland siblings…"

Alistair flushed again and turned away, so Zevran continued. "You know, I've had the opportunity to get to know three of them, now, and it would seem that obstinance runs in their blood. It's obviously not a learned response, but something truly hereditary, no?"

Alistair snorted. "Noticed that, did you?"

Zevran chuckled. "I never met their parents, but I shudder to think how much more so they must have been." The elf smirked, but there was no response from the agitated warrior now pacing the training grounds. "Well, at least in my experience, beating on an opponent that cannot fight back is a poor balm to that sort of frustration."

Alistair's shoulders shrugged, admitting the truth of the statement; no sparring dummy was going to allow him to vent his feelings in any significant way.

"Perhaps I can help, then? I only have my meager skills to offer, but surely I can prove a more able partner than that scarecrow, no?"

Alistair turned and stared at the elf, who withstood his gaze, unflinching. He certainly had wished for something more…satisfying than destroying a training dummy, but he didn't wish to hurt anyone. On the other hand, the assassin was an able combatant, and if anyone was capable of withstanding his pique, it was the elf. Seeming to take it as agreement, the elf unsheathed his swords and gestured to Alistair's shield propped against a stake in the courtyard.

Alistair scooped up the shield and rolled his shoulders. "You asked for it." The elf just smirked. "Bring it on, then."

Alistair winced as he clomped up the millionth stair to Avernus' lab. Sparring with the assassin had been a good distraction – but had started out with rather a lot of humiliation. Frustrated and doubting himself, he'd been too aggressive, at first, swinging wildly and relying on pure strength, assuming he'd rain blow after blow down on the smirking elf, somehow assuaging his own feelings in the process.

It hadn't gone like that at all. The sneaky Antivan had side-stepped the blows, bending and twisting out of them like he was made of air instead of bone and sinew, slapping Alistair on the flank with the flat of his blade when a missed swing caused him to stumble. And Alistair hadn't learned his lesson quickly; it had taken a handful of similarly embarrassing blows before he'd narrowed his eyes, stepped back, and stopped acting like a complete idiot. He'd used more of his skill after that, reminding himself that he was more than a strong arm; it had turned into a much more interesting fight after that.

They'd gone around and around in the arena for an hour, trading victory for defeat again and again. He'd knock Zevran over and hold his sword to the assassin's throat; the assassin would throw a handful of dirt in his eyes and leap on his back, blade against his vulnerable jugular. In the end, exhausted and sore, they'd called it a tie, and the assassin had accepted his awkward thanks – "It was the brotherly thing to do," he'd deflected with a strange smile – and gone inside to find himself something to eat. Alistair had grinned seeing the assassin limp when he thought no one was looking, but it turned into a self-deprecating chuckle when his own leg threatened to give out on the steps.

He arrived at the top of the tower before most of their companions, and after greeting the mages and helping set up two cots – and gratefully accepting some healing from an amused Anders – he'd stashed himself in a corner to think. His improved mood didn't last; it turned out physical exertion hadn't solved anything, and his feelings of guilt and his frustration were blending until he couldn't tell which was uppermost in his mind.

He deserved so much worse than for her to run from him.

But how could she walk away from him? Again?

He'd earned her distrust. He'd left her when she needed him.

But hadn't he proved himself to her, over and over, since then?

He was still deep in his own thoughts and missed when more people arrived; Faren's unconscious form, more mages, two former templars, and a handful of well-wishing Wardens all crowded the large room. He looked up just in time to see Sierra slink through the door.

As always, he was struck dumb when he first saw her. She was beautiful, there was no denying that, and the dress she wore was simple but flattering, but that wasn't the main reason. It was like…like goodness just radiated from her. He couldn't fathom how it had taken a while for some of their friends to trust her; it was immediately apparent to him that she was exactly as earnest as she seemed.

Honestly, he'd had no chance, from the first moment they had spoken.

He looked away, knowing his face was probably pink. He was feeling too conflicted to be caught gaping at her. Instead, he watched Aedan loop his arm over her shoulder and usher her inside, Zevran in tow.

He was briefly jealous; his best friend was Sierra's brother, so there was no question who Aedan would support when both of them were distraught. He wasn't sure he'd have discussed this with anyone anyway, and he really was grateful that she had a good support system…but his corner felt lonely, catching the dirty look Aedan gave him, even as Sierra kept her gaze firmly on her shoes. It wasn't fair that she had someone to confide in when he didn't. It wasn't like they were on different sides – there weren't sides at all, really. But he couldn't help but wish someone was standing next to him offering comfort.

Ashamed of himself for the uncharitable thoughts, he tried to forcibly refocus on the pending ritual.

Doing his duty – going out into the library and sending the other Wardens on their way, telling the soldiers to stand down, and heading back to the office he shared with Aedan to catch up on the administrative tasks they'd both been avoiding for days – was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. He thought it might only have been tolerable because he knew the templars Sierra had dubbed Fred and George had also left, sent to their rooms by Aedan so he could deal with them later.

Sierra had turned to him instinctively during the stressful ritual and its aftermath. He wanted to be reassured by that – but she still hadn't said a word to him. He knew she hated it when he worried about her – she thought it was condescending, and she probably wasn't wrong – but seeing her standing between two armed, potentially violent templars and a possible abomination was one of the scariest things he'd ever witnessed. And yet, despite everything, she hadn't even looked him in the eye.

He wished he had some idea what was going on with her; following a healer's advice should not have earned him this sort of treatment. He'd done much worse in the past, and she'd forgiven him without question…once they'd talked. Her avoidant behaviour was frustrating to say the least. And she continued in her avoidance of him, even after leaving Faren awake and confused; she hadn't come down for dinner, hadn't sought him out in his office…and now he was sitting alone in their quarters, approaching their normal bedtime, and there was no sign of her.

He finally resorted to sending a messenger, having to search around before finding parchment and quill to write a quick note. He didn't want to contemplate what the messenger would have thought, seeing him sending a note to his own wife, but any other method he could think of was going to be worse. He didn't want to have this discussion in her office, somewhere they could be seen or overheard; the only privacy they'd get was here in their quarters, and he didn't think going personally to drag her back would have been a better idea.

He sat waiting, wondering if he'd see the messenger back instead of his wife; he couldn't deny that he was hurt, having to chase her down and force her to talk to him. Some team they made, when he had no idea what was wrong – and she wouldn't tell him! His heart felt heavy, his stomach heaved, and he worried his hasty supper would come back to him at the worst moment. He'd just decided it was time to find her himself – how long could it take to make it from her office to their quarters, anyway? – when there was rustling outside the door.

He tried to compose his face, standing just as his wife came hesitantly through the doorway. She looked pale, he noticed, and something more – exhausted. It reminded him of when she'd been forced to stay awake for days to suppress the Architect's magic, and the comparison amplified the sick feeling in his stomach.

What had he done? He really wished he knew.

And then they both tried to break the silence, him to scold her for running away…but what she said left him reeling, like his whole world had tilted on its side without anyone warning him. He'd never thought that it was real, when people described their hearts 'shattering'; he'd always assumed it was hyperbole. He'd never dreamed it could be so accurate until the words that left her mouth hit him for the first time. His anger evaporated, to be replaced by soul-sucking pain.

"If you're going to leave, could you…could you not tell me until tomorrow? I don't think I can take it tonight."

He drew in a ragged breath, feeling like a hole had opened in his chest that he couldn't get enough air to fill. "Leave? Sierra, what in the Void are you talking about?" He thought he knew, but could only hope he was wrong.

He wasn't.

"It's been a difficult day, okay? I just can't take it if you…" She closed her eyes, and he felt another stab of pain at the expression on her face. "Maybe that's too much to ask. Look, I know. You don't…you don't see me like that, not after…" She paused, and he shifted, rubbing his chest. "You made it obvious this morning. You don't have to tell me. I already know."

He couldn't think. Or rather, it was like he was trying to think too much; too many thoughts competed in his head for prominence, and he couldn't sort them into something that made sense. But one thing was clear; his refusal to ignore the healer's orders – his reluctance to allow her to push them both into something neither was ready for – had her convinced he would walk out on her.

 _What kind of person does she think I am?_ He frowned. _The kind of person who would call her a monster and walk away for much less reason than this_ , the small voice in the back of his head reminded him. But it hurt, to think that she believed he would only remain with her for sex. That everything he'd tried to do to prove he loved her wasn't enough. _And why is physical intimacy always such a point of contention, anyway?_

He tried to consciously level his voice, trying not to escalate things further. "Let me get this straight. And, correct me if I'm wrong, because I really hope I am. You've decided that I don't want you anymore because, what, because of the miscarriage? And you expect that I'm leaving because of it. Is that about the size of it?" He winced, realising his attempt at being level had failed, badly. She looked away, refusing to meet his gaze, her cheeks flushed, and she was so infuriatingly beautiful in that moment that the butterflies in the pit of his stomach suddenly lurched back into flight. She bit her lip, and he couldn't take it anymore – he needed her to look at him. To see him.

He leaned forward, and instead of meeting him in the middle, she stepped back. And then again. He gave up and lifted her chin, only to have her close her eyes to evade him again.

"And you believe this to be true because…?" He did better at keeping his tone neutral, this time.

Her eyes flew open, finally. Her outraged expression might have been cute if he wasn't so hurt. "You have barely touched me since. You haven't kissed me. Hell, I threw myself at you – twice – and you declined. I don't exactly need you to paint me a picture, Alistair."

He gasped a breath, trying to ignore the flash of irritation he felt. But instead he caught a whiff of a scent – mint, and lavender, and something more feral than that too, the scent that was Sierra's alone, the scent that drove him mad in the night when he held her. It flooded him with images, scenes from nights that they'd spent together, her head thrown back as she'd cried out in ecstasy – and he couldn't even help it; he needed more of that, even as he wanted to shake her or go hit Zevran again. He couldn't stop himself from breathing in closer to her skin, savouring the scent and the fast little breaths that told him she'd noticed their close proximity too.

It didn't stop him from trying – again – to explain, though it did probably rattle his brain a little so that he made less sense than he intended. "Did it ever occur to you that I was being a gentleman?" He had trouble focusing on his words with her body so close to him. Regardless of how he felt, his body knew what it wanted when they were together. "That maybe it had nothing to do with my desire, but more with what was right?"

She scrabbled for a response, and he couldn't help it. He had to kiss her. It was imperative to his continued survival. The ache in his heart and the irritation in his hunched shoulders couldn't overcome his need to taste her, to feel her against him. She surrendered to him, opening her mouth and making an adorably confused noise, and he could feel himself hardening in his trousers, even when he didn't want to.

"Because there has never been a time when I didn't want you." He tugged her against him, even as his subconscious shouted at him – they needed to talk, not have sex in their sitting room. He kissed her anyway, against his better judgement, and without even thinking about it, found himself pinning her to the wall, plundering her pliant mouth. He had intended the kiss to be brief, reassuring rather than passionate, but as usual, being with her was overwhelming, and he found himself ignoring his pain, his frustration, and pouring everything into the kiss.

Even as she clung to him, moving against him, their hands roaming familiar curves and touching all the right places, his inner voice got louder and more insistent. This wasn't going to fix anything. Sex had never been their problem. And if he ignored this – if he let her distract him, regardless of how enjoyable the distraction – he would regret it forever, especially the next time she ran from him. And maybe they wouldn't be able to fix it by then.

Even thinking about it, imagining the pain he would feel the next time she took off, was enough to bring him back to his senses. Tears had erupted from his eyes, streaming down his face in a way they hadn't since he'd been at the monastery, alone and bitter, and he pulled away before she would notice. No matter how he felt, he wasn't trying to make her feel worse – he just needed some time. Some perspective.

He needed some distance, he realised. He'd rushed this confrontation, but he wasn't ready to finish it. He needed to think, to organise his feelings – to put the worst of them aside so they could talk without his anger or hurt ruining it. He needed to be sure, completely sure, that he wouldn't say something in anger that he couldn't take back. He'd been down that road before – lashing out in anger – and he wouldn't do that to her again.

He let her down, holding her hips until she got her legs under her. She made a bereft little noise as their lips separated, and it tore at something inside him; he kept her close, not wanting her to see his pain or his tears, but she raised her hands to his traitorous, wet face, and he cursed inwardly.

"You ran from me, Sierra. You didn't ask, didn't wait, didn't listen. What happened to giving each other the benefit of the doubt? We've talked about this, remember? How we'd been through too much to let anything come between us? Instead, you assumed, and you ran, and you decided I was going to _divorce_ you without even talking to me about it." He dropped his hands, hunching his shoulders against the pain of it. "You don't trust me, and I don't know what else to do. How do I convince you I love you? How do I prove to you I'm never leaving you? Every time we hit a bump, every disagreement or misunderstanding, you run. You run, and I have to come find you."

She opened her mouth – he could feel the breath gust out as she went to speak – and he put his finger over her lips to stop it. He wasn't ready to hear apologies or excuses – and she didn't need excuses for how she felt. She didn't feel safe with him, and that was his fault. That was the part that hurt the most. He would do whatever he had to until she trusted him – but he needed time first.

"I don't blame you. After all, I did leave you. I set the precedent, and I guess this lack of trust isn't entirely unearned." He pressed his forehead against hers so they could see each other, but still wouldn't let her speak. "But it still hurts, Sierra. I thought…I wanted us to be past this." He pulled back and kissed her forehead, a visceral reminder of their separation during the Blight and the kiss he was sure would be his last. "Tomorrow I'll be up to trying again. I'll find a way to prove it to you. I'll earn your trust, one way or the other, because _I will never leave you again_." He wracked his brain for the most outrageous examples he could think of. "Not if you turn into a homicidal ghoul and start eating our friends. Not if you sleep with every man in the Keep. Not if we are never able to have children and it's all your fault. _Never._ I'm with you to the end. But I…it's too much. I just need one night to put this pain back where it belongs. Tomorrow is a new day, a new start. I will try again. But for tonight…I just, I need to..."

He could see that he was hurting her, and Maker, there was nothing he wanted less than to cause her pain…but his urge to cover pain and irritation with snarky humour would only hurt her more if he stayed. He'd say something only a quarter true, all sarcastic and bitter, and she'd take him at his word…. No. He had to get away before he made it worse.

He left her standing there and went to grab a blanket and a pillow, with the intent to find somewhere else to sleep for just one night. He pulled a blanket out of the wardrobe where they kept their travel gear and grabbed the first pillow he saw off the bed. As he rolled the pillow into the blanket for carrying, her scent wafted off both – he'd grabbed her pillow by accident. He pressed his face to it, taking a shuddering breath, wondering what he'd do if she chose not to let him back in the next day. But he was sure that if he stayed, it would be over – sooner or later. He squared his shoulders and went back out to find her evidently glued to the spot he'd left her.

He wanted to touch her – to pull her into his arms and beg her forgiveness, to make love to her until she screamed his name loud enough that the Architect heard her…but he could barely see her through his watery eyes. "This isn't me leaving you. You understand that, right?"

Walking out that door was the hardest thing he'd ever done.

He just had to hope that if – when – he walked back in, he'd be able to find a way to make it work.


End file.
